Choices
by Nevah
Summary: Sometimes there is no turning back.


Part four in my little series (which has a name now, by the way: _A Priori_)... this one finally starts to get at just why (in my opinion) Spike and Vicious seem to hate each other so much. (Silly boys, carrying grudges like that.) Anyway, on with the Spike/Vicious fun... complete with drama, angst, and actual full sentences of dialogue! Yay!  
  
If you'd like (and it might be helpful), you can go read the previous three parts of _A Priori_ [here][1]. (Which, fyi, means from what came before in Latin.)   
  
(Wow, I'm fond of parentheses tonight, aren't I.)   
  
I would insert a disclaimer here, but why bother? We all know I own nothing and someone could still sue me if they felt really mean. So boo on that.   
  
~*~  
  
Julia's voice was muffled and distant, calling their names from the room across the hall.  
  
Spike slammed Vicious violently against the closed door, squaring the heels of his palms into the hollows just below Vicious's collarbone and grinding them deep into the flesh. What the hell are you doing here. Not an inquiry so much as a demand.  
  
Vicious made every effort to look nothing less than sanguine. He knew it would irritate Spike and he enjoyed the thought. She's mine to have Spike, if I want her. She doesn't belong to you; she belongs to the Syndicate. The trace of a cruel smile bled into his face and he let it.  
  
Spike curled his hands into fists around the lapels of Vicious's black overcoat, using it to pull him away from the cool wood and crush him back again even harder. He took a step closer to his captive and pressed a bent knee against his groin, warning. Don't make me ask again. Spike's voice was flat and vacant, too much anger there to be translated vocally.   
  
The silence was long and still.  
  
It's strange, Spiegel, Vicious finally whispered, glaring up at the brown eyes above him, touching the tip of his tongue to the edge of his teeth in mock-thought. Spike's body tensed against his and even as Vicious anticipated the forthcoming reaction, he continued. Strange, that I didn't even want her.  
  
Spike blinked twice in rapid succession but remained silent, so clearly trying to hold the upper hand.  
  
I didn't want her at all, Vicious lifted himself suddenly forward, pressing the length of his torso flat against Spike's and raising his chin until his lips brushed bare traces against Spike's throat, until you had her. He smiled against Spike's skin, prolonging that one electric moment of hesitation before the other man would inevitably move away, inhaling deeply the scent of tobacco and cordite that seemed to seep like a natural musk from his pores. This was in Spike's control now, he knew.   
  
God, how he knew.  
  
Spike could lower his face toward Vicious's parted and waiting lips or he could raise a fist to crack against them, but the choice was entirely his. As time continued to stretch Vicious relived the odd perfection yet again: the warm, gentle mouth fitted neatly against his own, the tentative edge of a lazy tongue darting just barely beyond the line between them. Spike tasted like anise, beneath the all the smoke, and it was only now that Vicious thought to wonder why.   
  
He had led them there once; he would not do it again.  
  
Vicious felt Spike's motion and knew how it would land the instant before contact. The sharp angle of an elbow smashed bluntly against his right cheekbone, making the world crumple and expand behind his eyes as Spike grabbed his shoulder and used the momentum of the blow to heave him toward the center of the room. He recovered with a graceful stumble, turning toward Spike. His hand drifted out of habit to the hilt of the blade at his side, fingers curling along the grip in a reflexive blood lust, but he did not draw it.  
  
Instead he simply fastened his gaze to Spike's and let the transformation take place. The cold he felt so deep inside burst forward, feathered tendrils of ice rippling through him, gray eyes suddenly chilled with an undulled hate.  
  
Simple emotions, with Spike. One feeling at a time; only one left to choose from.  
  
It was so easy.  
  
Spike stood along the wall, poised to fight, but Vicious made no movement to challenge him. The battle was complete.  
  
Remember, Spike. Vicious straightened, smiling, baring teeth almost fiercely.  
  
Spike drew a wide breath but didn't exhale. Remember what?  
  
Remember. When you die at my hands, you chose to do so. The grin was still pulled hard and sharp along his lips, twisting his formerly playful face into a feral sneer.  
  
Dream on, Vicious, Spike bit back at him. You're the one who'll die at mine.   
  
Vicious stepped toward the door, his stride even and rhythmic as he neared Spike and paused beside him, their shoulders brushing lightly. The contact no longer held even the ghost of a thrill. Once upon a time, Spike. He spoke the words without raising his head, and continued on to open the door and walk though it without waiting for a response.  
  
Julia stood in the hallway, quietly stunned, watching, wrapped in the white cotton sheet from her bed.  
  
_Once upon a time, Spike, I would have._  
  
It didn't occur to him until much later to wonder how much she'd heard. _  
  
_~*~

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/nevah1/nevahspage3.html



End file.
